Myra moved nearer, bit-by-bit: the only thing that mattered now. Her whole life minimized to this very act of survival. Then she stopped.
Shit! The lock! The bloody lock was too high. She could see the handle clearly now. Even half-standing upright, no way would her tied hands get to that. Only if she could stand on a chair, she could reach the brass handle. But, he could have locked it from the outside.
Myra didn’t want to waste any more valuable time, she turned back as she dismissed that idea, muttering three fast fucks to herself. The clock was ticking. She had to get back down the hall. Get into a room. Hide or something; better still find something sharp. Get yourself free and with any luck stab the nasty fucker at the same time.
Myra slid along past two closed doors until she came to one a quarter open. She nudged it and it creaked wider. Laying on her back it took a few seconds to get some orientation. It was the lounge.
She took in two large rugs and a coffee table. Myra stopped and stared for a second. On the coffee table was an expensive looking bronze paperweight of a couple having sex. That was Raymond's style, she thought. There was also a sofa and across from it a television sitting on a cheap veneer cabinet. Behind its glass doors, a lonely magazine sat in a rack. She moved in further over the rugs, rucking them up as she went past the sofa. Then Myra saw the electric fire set in a small brick mantle-piece. In the far corner a tall floor lamp with a soft old-fashioned shade stood next to a scratched wooden sideboard with empty shelves. It was all too familiar, she thought. It complimented a cheap fully furnished rented apartment. Shit in it you’d never buy.
‘Fuck,’ she muttered. She lay on her back looking at the nicotine stained ceiling. It was the most comfortable position. Her wrists all bloody and chaffed screamed their pain. The chances of finding anything sharp were looking remote. She could imagine Raymond searching the rooms in panic then realising with a smile she was still a prisoner. His little fly all exhausted now, more tangled up than ever in his sticky web. Then a thought occurred - the electric fire. The switches were low. She could reach them at a push. Lie something to burn near the bars. She could move away quick. Get up to the front door. Hope people might see smoke coming out of air vents, smell burning. Then it dawned. What if nobody comes? End up a charred mess, pleading to a grinning Raymond to put her out her misery. At the worst scenario, the prospect of a slow death from being barbequed soured any further plans with the fire.
Then Myra had another idea. She looked at the TV cabinet with its glass doors. She pushed off and slid her way across until her feet were in range. Wincing as the rope cut into her wrists, she turned her face away and with a few heavy thrusts kicked out the glass. She manoeuvred herself around the glass shards on the floor until she had her back to the cabinet. Straining her neck to look behind with the bit of slack she had, she slowly began to saw through the line using the jagged bits still attached to the frame, cutting and nicking herself at the same time.
She could feel her wrists getting looser. Now and again, she would stop and strain hard trying to force them apart, then back to the sawing, until, with a sudden ping of ecstasy the washing line parted.
Myra rubbed her wrists. They were stinging badly from the rope burn. She pulled at the gag with, both hands, until she had levered it over her chin. She tried to untie her feet, which was difficult as the knot was so tight; he’d made a good job. She tried a piece of glass but like the wrists, it was slow going and she didn’t have the time. Raymond could be back any minute.
The kitchen, get a knife. Myra slid to the nearest wall and then using her back, she pushed herself upright. Hopping out of the lounge into the hall, she spotted the glass-panelled door. She opened it and saw the knife rack on the kitchen work surface. Using the smallest one, she cut her feet free then slipped the stiletto into the back of her trouser belt. She went to the front door and tried to open it, but it was locked. No surprises there. She gave it a couple of half-hearted kicks out of frustration; it was too sturdy to have a go with her shoulder, she’d end up breaking that instead.
A quick look around revealed no telephone. No surprises there again. All the basement windows had bars but she could still smash the glass and start yelling.
The strong urge to do this was overtaken by the fact that this would probably be her one and only chance of getting the money back, providing she could surprise Raymond. Myra went back to the bedroom. She stepped around the bits of wardrobe and started searching where she’d left off. Then, in one of the drawers underneath some shirts: bingo! A statement from the Banco Popular Español showing €387,314 euros together with a passbook and chequebook and some torn off security tabs scratched away to reveal pin numbers.
‘You careless little fucker, Raymond,’ she said aloud.
Myra carried on searching; she ducked down under the bed and suddenly jerked back with a fright. She’d spotted a body. She gingerly peered again, and then slowly pulled it out with astonishment; a scantily clad, half-cup black bra with suspender belt and fishnet stockings, blow-up doll including orifices. The large box it came deflated in clearly showing her name, Luscious Lita. She held it up with a smirk as it bounced around like a balloon. It was nearly as tall as she. Myra tossed it onto the bed where it lay, legs open, ready for action.
Now, she had to sort out how to jump him, and quickly. He was going to be back any minute, and probably not in a good mood when he realised he’d been sent on a wasted errand.
Myra had lied. There was no duplicate letter or photo, not even a freebie €500. In fact, the safe box didn’t exist. The Pension El Amigo didn’t have any safes. And, the key on the ring? That was for her cheap suitcase.
Myra had to hide from him and quick.
Three minutes later she heard the front door slam. Then swearing,
‘You, lying slag, I’m gonna teach you … ’ She could hear him reach the bedroom, ‘SHIT! Fuck, just wait till I get hold of you.’ He went to the lounge. Suddenly it went quiet. Myra froze.
Raymond came back into the hall.
‘Now come on, Myra. I know you’re in here. You can’t get out. I made sure of it. Don’t make me come after you.’
The only room he hadn’t checked, the bathroom. Raymond held the pistol ready; he didn’t want to use it unless he had to. It was far too noisy, might draw attention. He’d corner her then use the knife to finish her off.
Raymond gently pushed the door open, in case she jumped out with her own weapon. She’d had time to find one. The bathroom door swung wide. And there she was, hiding, silhouetted behind the shower curtain. Stupid bitch, Raymond thought, as if I couldn’t see her. Still, it’ll keep all the mess in one place and easy to clean. He slipped the pistol in his pocket and pulled the knife slowly from its sheath strapped to his lower leg. Raymond smiled to himself; the shower scene from Psycho briefly crossed his mind.
Like his Norman Bates counterpart, Raymond lunged forward in a stabbing mindless frenzy, grunting with each thrust through the curtain and falling headlong into the bath still stabbing a hissing Luscious Lita. The last thing Raymond saw was his blow-up doll wearing Myra’s clothes.
THWACK! She hit him smack on the back of the head with the heavy bronze paperweight of the couple making love. She hit him again and again.
Finally, Myra put a finger to his neck and checked; just to be sure, he was dead. She tugged away at the deflated doll until it was free of Raymond, put her clothes back on and retrieved her bag and its contents.
Myra sat on the toilet seat. What to do next? A thought occurred. ‘I wonder.’
She craned her neck and looked up. It was one of the old type toilet cisterns with a chain. Do great minds think alike? She stood on tiptoe and reached behind the tank. Nothing. Then she put the seat down and stepped up. Peering over the edge of the tank, ‘Yes!’ Sure enough there it was - a wad of money floating in water. It was stuffed in a polythene bag tied to a piece of string. Myra lifted it out and shook it.
She sat on
the toilet seat and counted eleven thousand euros in fifty-euro notes. That would take the strain out of things for the time being.
She took the map from her shoulder bag and picked out a few beauty spots highlighted with the camera icon; following the Cami a Cala Banys coast road, her finger took her to the Hotel Monjardi.
Using Raymond’s keys, she let herself out and headed for the taxi rank. She confirmed a 01:30 a.m. pickup and paid Alfonso in the booth. He had a license ID with his name and photo dangling from his neck. He loud-mouthed some Spanish into a microphone to one of the drivers.
Myra was hoping that by 12:30 a.m. it would all be finished. She could then take a leisurely stroll to the Hotel Monjardi and hover around until the taxi arrived. Then back to her hotel. After that, the world was her oyster.
At 11:45 p.m., she was ready. Myra had cleaned up the flat. She had put the wardrobe back against the wall, found a screwdriver in the kitchen drawer and removed the damaged TV cabinet doors - the unit looked as if it never had doors. Then cleaned out the shower bath and put all the bits of plywood and broken glass including the punctured blow-up doll down the communal refuse shute. Raymond was suitably dressed for the occasion with a cap covering a head wound.
With a peak outside and holding up Raymond with his arm around her shoulder, she had dragged him along with his head slumped forward and the cap over his eyes. Myra knew the meaning of a deadweight as she wrestled with him up the flight of basement stairs. It had seemed an eternity as she made her way along the hallway until she reached the front doors out into the street. She’d parked his Mercedes as near as empty parking bays would allow. Only a short walk now to the car with him, but even in the dark they both looked very conspicuous.
Just then, within 20 yards, a couple turned a corner and approached. Fuck!-fuck!-fuck! Myra’s mind whirred.
‘Come on now, Steve,’ she laughed, ‘you always get shit-faced on holiday.’ The couple slowed up and started smiling. ‘
Come on, Steve, not far now.’
The Spanish woman spoke in broken English.
‘You need ‘elp?’
‘Oh no, it’s Ok, thank you’ Myra smiled, ‘our hotel is only up the road.’
‘But ’ee looks ’eavy, my boyfriend will ’elp you.’ She motioned to her glum-looking partner who stepped forward reluctantly with a look that said he wished his girlfriend would keep her mouth shut.
‘No-no, please it’s OK, honestly. I’ve done this loads of times on holiday. My husband likes a drink, trouble is, he doesn’t know when to stop,’ she laughed.
‘But ’e is too ’eavee for a woman to carry on ’er own. Ricardo, ’elp the lady.’ He stepped forward again mumbling something in Spanish with his arms out ready to support.
Myra, trying to grin through it all, protested again, holding her free hand up to stop him.
‘No, honestly it’s alright. I can manage,’ she laughed. ‘It’s only a short walk - look, see up there,’ She pointed to an imaginary spot, and their eyes briefly followed her arm.
Suddenly, Raymond slipped a little from her grasp. Myra with great effort hoisted him back to a better hold. ‘Whoops! Nearly lost you then, Steve,’ she said to him, laughing it off.
‘But I insist, you might ’urt yourself. Ricardo, do not just stand there. ’Elp the lady.’
Myra had had enough. She exploded and screamed at them.
‘Listen, you two fucking wop dago’s. I do not need your fucking help for the tenth time. Now both of you, can do me one big favour and take your greasy dago selves and fuck off! Do you understand that?’
She stopped them in their tracks. They both stood there with their mouths open.
With that retort, Myra hoisted Raymond for a better hold then carried on with him with his feet dragging on the pavement. After a couple of minutes, with great difficulty, she turned to look, and was hugely relieved to see they’d gone. Now, she had to double back with him. She’d walked past the Mercedes for a good fifty yards.
At last, with Raymond’s body sitting in the passenger seat slumped forward out of sight, she breathed a long sigh of relief. More problems followed as she tried to start the car up. It was then Myra sussed it. Being a manual, the clutch had to be depressed first, as an anti-theft device. More cursing followed until the car finally pulled out of the parking bay and headed for the Cami a Cala Banys coast road.
The journey of twist and turns along the cliff top was uneventful, apart from the annoying clonk somewhere of a door not shut properly. She didn’t want to stop, just wanted to get on with it and get there. When a bend came up, she would grab Raymond with her right hand just in case it might be his door.
By 12:20 a.m., the headlights had picked out one of the very nasty extreme sharp turns high up on the headland overlooking the sea. She eased on the accelerator and pulled into the visitors’ layby with the pay and view telescope. At this point, the metal safety barrier stopped and was replaced by a low, two foot wall. This was capped with wide coping slabs for seating and picnicking. Myra adjusted the driver’s seat as far back as it would go then climbed out.
At once, the smell of the sea and the distinct perfume of crag violets filled her senses. As expected, the place was deserted.
She looked up at the stars. It was perfectly clear with very little wind, even at this level. Out on the horizon, a few fishing boat lanterns faintly twinkled, while to the left, the sprawling town of Lloret de Mar burned below with its neon glare.
She walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. She looked at him for the last time, all crumpled and lifeless. What could have been? She’d fancied Raymond, could have settled down with him. With all that money, they could have had some great times together, if he hadn’t been so greedy and done the dirty. He just wasn’t satisfied with his lot. It must have burnt a hole in his brain seeing her share lying there. Easy pickings, he had probably thought. However, prison had made Myra very streetwise and she’d learnt from working with him at the care home and living together for a brief spell, how devious he was. They say devious minds think alike. Only, she’d been one jump ahead and now he was dead. A lesson to be learned: a good teacher should always know the extent of his student’s progress.
‘Come on, Raymond, let’s get you in the driving seat.’ Myra bent down and with a lot of effort hauled him over her shoulder. She staggered with him around to the other side of the car and rolled him off in front of the steering wheel. She went back and shut the passenger door, then came round to the driver’s side, removed her shoulder bag and placed it on the ground. Myra fixed the seat belt around Raymond and then climbed in and sat on his lap. She made sure she could reach the pedals OK, and then switched on the ignition. She reversed back to the opposite side of the road to give herself a run-up. With the handbrake on, Myra did a practise exit as she swung her legs and jumped out. Then she climbed back in again and sat on his lap.
With the door half open, she looked over her shoulder.
‘Well, this is goodbye, Raymond, it was nice knowing you.’
Myra revved up the engine and released the handbrake; she looked both ways and switched on the lights full beam. Then she started to accelerate towards the wall.
It all seemed to happen in slow motion: the boot lid rising up, the shadowy figure climbing out, then running at her side, slamming the driver’s door. Myra screaming, struggling to find the handle in those precious seconds, but too late. The car crashed through the wall and hurtled over the cliff.
The Mercedes rolled and smashed, hit a ledge and rolled and smashed again, bounced and plummeted headlong onto the rocks below, disintegrating into the surrounding sea and disappearing under the waves.
The well-built young man with a shaven head and sporting an earring with a nasty razor scar on his left cheek picked up the bag and checked inside. He raised an eyebrow, counted the 11,000 euros and placed the bundle in his inside pocket. After a quick rummage through the rest of the contents, he decided the
re was nothing else of any value. With a hefty swing, the bag, including Raymond’s bank statement with a healthy balance of €387,314 sailed over the cliff. Then, he took out his mobile phone and pressed some buttons.
‘Mr Kashani, it’s Ricky. I’ve got your money and more. In fact, eleven thousand euros.’
‘Well done, Ricky; a little bonus on my nine hundred pounds. Listen, keep a thousand for yourself and give a thousand to Alfonso at the car hire. He set it up remember. Oh, and drop the spare set of keys back to him.’
‘Will do, Mr Kashani.’
‘Did you have any problems?’
‘Not really, Mr Kashani. He must have done the dirty on this bitch he was with. She was trying to fake an accident for him. I just saved her the trouble.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Out in the wilds, Mr Kashani; high up on a coast road, some sort of beauty spot. The sign says Amante Salto. I think it means lovers’ leap in Spanish.’
‘Make sure his flat is clean before you come home.’
‘Will do, Mr Kashani. I’ll be getting a morning flight to Gatwick and should be at the office with your money just before teatime.’
Ricky put his phone away and started walking the coast road towards the Hotel Monjardi. It would take him around 40 minutes. He had a cab picking him up there at 01:30 a.m. Alfonso in the taxi booth had arranged it.
We’ll Meet Again
1914 was George Anscombe’s first Christmas away from home. The prospect of seeing in the New Year with the First Battalion of the East Surrey Regiment holed up in West Belgium in a trench outside Ypres, wasn’t something he was looking forward to.
At eighteen years old, he’d joined up four months ago. His athletic five foot, eleven inch physique with British good looks and fair wavy hair had made him ideal material for the enlistment board. In fact, George in uniform holding his Lee Enfield 0.303 rifle and fixed bayonet epitomised the front line Tommy so well, that he could have been on a recruitment poster.
From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories Page 22